


Power of Choice

by DaronwyK



Series: What if... HP Drabbles & Short Stories [34]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dark, Death Eaters, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaronwyK/pseuds/DaronwyK
Summary: As Harry falls, Hermione is given a terrible choice. Submit, or never have the ability to choose anything again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One-Shot that will likely be continued.

**o.o.O.o.o**

 

A flare of sickly green magic changed everything, obliterating hope and killing the future that all of them had fought so desperately to save.

 

“Bring the Mudblood to me,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the stunned silence as those watching looked at Harry Potter’s body on the ground. This time he was not getting up.

 

Hermione heard the words, but couldn’t process them through her shock and crushing grief. She was jolted from it as a hand closed around her upper arm and dragged her forward. She felt someone try and pull her back, but their hands fell away as she was led onwards. She felt entirely detached from the scene, not even looking at Voldemort because her eyes were still locked on Harry’s fallen form. His brilliant green eyes stared sightlessly out at the world…the spark in them snuffed out forever. She didn’t look away until she felt thin, bony fingers on her chin, forcing her to turn her head and meet Voldemort’s unnatural red gaze.

 

“No tears for your fallen hero?” he mocked her.

 

Hermione jerked out of her shocked daze, and she narrowed her eyes, jerking her face away from his touch, his blunt nails scratching at her flesh. He was terrifying, but she wouldn’t cower. Harry had faced him boldly, she would too. His memory demanded no less. “Not in front of you.”

 

“So fearless, even now in the face of complete and utter defeat. Powerless and alone, you dare to defy me.” A cruel smile twisted his features. “Hold her,” Voldemort commanded and forced his way into her mind. He was surprised as she managed to mount a reasonable defence, but he smashed through. He watched her as a small child, maybe 3 or 4 playing in the garden, levitating stones in spinning patterns as she laughed, falling back onto the lush green grass. He watched her grow, learning to control her wild magic, then the utter joy she’d felt when Professor McGonagall had come to deliver her Hogwarts letter. She’d gone shopping with her mother and Professor Vector, and he experienced her wonder and her sense of finally belonging. He watched her face a Mountain troll and protect her friends, brew Polyjuice potion in her second year, free Sirius Black and play with time, and then seen her first brush with love with a student from Durmstrang of all places. Even at that age, she stood in the light while always flirting with the dark.

 

The curious Dark Lord drank in every detail of her encounters with Dolores Umbridge, and her nasty curse that left Marietta Edgecomb marked for life as a traitor. He saw her lure her enemy into the Forbidden Forest and leave her to the questionable mercies of the Centaurs. She’d faced Dolohov’s signature curse and lived, though it still pained her. Voldemort realized just how essential she had been to Potter and that without her, the boy would have been an annoyance at best. He withdrew and considered the young witch, seeing tears on her lashes now from the pain of his intrusion. Under all the light and goodness, there was a darkness to this girl. In her heart there was a desperate wish for power, for importance…a need to belong. A glimmer of Slytherin Green buried deep beneath the Crimson and Gold of her chosen house.

 

“I have an offer for you, Miss Granger,” Voldemort said then, everyone falling silent as they heard their Lord address the Mudblood with a strange kind of respect. “You will kneel, and willingly join the ranks of my Death Eaters, and in return the persecution of muggle-born witches and wizards will cease. Perhaps your kind have a place in the future order,” he said, watching her. The words were chosen carefully, and Voldemort wondered if she would sacrifice her ideals in exchange for the power to change the fates of others.

 

“Give me your word that no one else will be harmed,” Hermione said, her head swimming a little as she tried to see some way out of this. Surely he was just playing with her? It couldn’t be that easy, but she also knew that minute she’d started bargaining with him, that he’d won.

 

“I, Lord Voldemort, give my word that **IF** the mudblood Hermione Granger kneels, accepts my Mark, and swears her loyalty to me, I will not harm any who stood against us today, providing they do not offer further violence. Also, muggleborns will be assimilated into our world and those currently imprisoned shall be released,” he said. “Now, what is your decision?”

 

Hermione swallowed, unable to break the intense stare he was giving her. She shook off the hands holding her and she knelt on the stone of the courtyard. She heard Ron screaming at her, telling her not to do it…but she could do this. If it protected everyone else, she could do this. The power of choice was too much to turn away from. If she refused, she knew the fate that awaited her would be horrific, and everyone else would suffer too. If she refused, she’d never have the power to choose anything again. The young witch was shaking as she raised her left arm, offering it to Voldemort.

 

“Willing supplication…you are a smart little witch.” Voldemort took her wrist gently and pushed back her sleeve, revealing the still healing scars that spelled ‘mudblood’. “My mark will wash that away, it will be only a dark memory,” he said quietly. “Obedience without question, and loyalty until death are what I demand. Do you swear to this?” he asked her.

 

“I swear my obedience, and loyalty to you. My Lord.” Hermione forced the words out, feeling bile rise in her throat. He lowered his wand and hissed something in parseltongue, the pain was searing and white hot. Green burst of light exploded behind her eyelids, as if the magic itself had a colour and form only she could see. She tried not to cry out, but screams dragged themselves out of her throat as the pain went on and on.

 

The faces of those watching were a study in contrasts. The defenders of the school wore looks of horror and fear, and the Slytherin students were chuckling until they saw the grim looks on the faces of all the Death Eaters. None of them were laughing, all of their faces were closed, expressionless. They all knew the agony of enduring the Dark Lord’s mark, as he burned it into their skin, forcing a piece of his magic deep inside them. It was a violation deeper than any and created a connection more intimate than most could dream.

 

Finally, he released her and let her fall to the ground and clutch her arm to her chest. It was an animal instinct driving her to curl into the fetal position and protect her wounded limb, the pain driving all higher reasoning away.

 

“Rodolphus…bring me Dolores Umbridge,” he ordered, for the moment ignoring the girl where she lay at his feet. Lestrange disappeared with a crack. “The teachers will escort the students back to their dormitories and seal them inside for their safety. House Elves will ensure they are fed. The injured will be transported to the Hospital wing, or St. Mungo’s as required. All other adults involved in the fighting will remain where they are.” He stepped over the girl and approached them.

 

“This girl’s sacrifice has given you your lives back, but it is up to you to keep them. Kneel and swear that you will not take up arms against me again. Do this and you will be allowed to leave this place and return to your homes, your jobs, and your lives. Refuse and you will be taken away and held for trial. Decide now.” He watched as the teachers and students withdrew and slowly, one by one, people fell to their knees. Unsurprisingly the Weasleys were the last to kneel…but kneel they did.

 

He walked through the rows of kneeling witches and wizards and had them swear their oath, before releasing them and telling them to leave immediately. They would all be watched, of course, but if their world was to survive, killing all those that opposed him was out of the question. They needed magical children for their world to survive, and magical parents to raise them. As the courtyard emptied, Rodolphus arrived with the simpering, pink-clad witch in tow. Voldemort grinned and looked back at the immobile form of the little mudblood. She was still curled up amidst the debris, oblivious to the world around her.

 

“Lucius….get the girl up,” Voldemort said and watched as the wizard moved forward and knelt, speaking quietly to the girl for a moment and then offered her a hand up. The courtly gesture seemingly at odds with the carnage all around them.

 

Hermione slipped her hand into Lucius’ and let him help her stand, hating that she needed him. Finally on her feet, albeit unsteadily, she nodded her thanks to him. She had not expected words of kindness, not from him.

 

“Come here, girl.” Voldemort held out a hand.

 

Hermione made herself walk to him, concentrating on just moving her feet. Her eyes focused on details, the cracks in the stones under her feet, the odd little flash of green where a weed was stubbornly trying to cling to life amidst the destruction…anything but thinking about what she had just done. When she reached him, he stroked a hand down her back and leaned in close, speaking just to her.

 

“Every new Death Eater must complete a task for me, to prove their oaths were sincere. You will kill Dolores Umbridge,” he said.

 

Hermione’s eyes widened and she turned her head, looking at him. “I…”

 

“Your first kill is a special thing, and her death will ensure the safety of others like you. The Muggleborn Registry was her idea after all,” he spoke quietly. “I offer you power over life and death, over someone I know is very much your enemy. Will you really refuse?”

 

“I don’t have a wand…Bellatrix’s is next to useless to me,” she answered him.

 

Voldemort inclined his head slightly and straightened. “Lucius, find this witch a wand and make certain she understands how to cast the spell I require of her.” He met the man’s eyes, knowing he would understand. He left them to go over and speak to Dolores, her simpering making him want to end her himself.

 

Lucius came over, and held out an array of wands that had belonged to the fallen. They had been collecting them as the bodies were taken to the great hall to be prepared for burial. “Choose a wand, Miss Granger,” he said.

 

Hermione hovered her hand over each of them until she felt *something*. It was an innocuous looking wand, but as she gripped it in her hand she felt a flood of warmth rush up her arm. It was longer than her previous wand, and was a deep honey colour with strange variations in the grain and a single green stone set into the end. “This one.”

 

“Hawthorn…interesting,” Lucius mused for a moment then shook it off. “He wants you to use the killing curse Miss Granger,” Lucius said quietly. “You know the incantation.”

 

She nodded. “And the wand movement, but it’s not that simple. Is it?”

 

“No,” Lucius said. “Do you hate the Umbridge woman?” His cool grey eyes met hers, searching them.

 

“Yes.” She didn’t need to hesitate. “She’s evil.”

 

“Let that emotion fill you, don’t try and control it. Let it drive you through this. Focus on your desire to obliterate her from this world, snuffing her out like a candle in a darkened room. Welcome the darkness that follows. If you fight it, the curse will not work,” Lucius said. “If you want to survive this day, you must do it.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Why are you helping me?” she asked quietly.  

 

“Because I was commanded to,” he said simply. “Do what he tells you, whatever he tells you, and you will please him. Trust me in that you never want to disappoint him,” he warned.

 

She nodded and took a shaky breath, trying to find her center. She felt so off balance, with the world spinning madly beneath her feet. Finally ready she turned, and looked to where Voldemort was waiting for her. Dolores’ eyes narrowed when she saw her.

 

“What is that creature doing with a wand?” her shrill voice demanded.

 

“What I have ordered her to,” Voldemort said and stepped back.

 

Hermione looked at her, feeling all of her rage at everything that had happened roll up over her. She raised her wand and gestured sharply. “Avada Kedavra!” she said, feeling the power surge through her, green light streaking through the air and hitting the toad-woman right in the chest. The flare of the spell lit her face in its sickly emerald light, and she could feel it tearing into her soul, sipping it asunder just as surely as it was destroying her enemy. The older witch fell backwards, never having had the chance to raise her wand in defence. Hermione nearly dropped her new wand as she realized what she had done. Then she heard laughter, and clapping and she was nearly sick. She’d just murdered her…in cold blood. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep from panicking.

 

“Well done…well done. She really is the best witch of her age.” Voldemort chuckled and glided towards her. “A little knowledge, a touch of instruction, and flawless execution.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You have done well, Hermione. So much power, in such an unassuming form.” He used her name possessively. “But I believe I will need to keep a close eye on you…for a time a least.” He touched her face again, tipping her chin up to make her look at him. “I need to be certain your loyalty is genuine.”

 

“I keep my word,” Hermione said quietly. She just wanted to fall into a bed and sleep…possibly forever.

 

“I am certain you do, but I require some insurance.” He straightened and looked at his assembled forces. “Antonin, come forward.” He finally settled on the Russian.

 

Antonin came forward and knelt. “My Lord.”

 

“You will take the mudblood to your home. She is in your charge for the time being. You may not kill her, nor inflict any lasting injury.” He was firm on that. “But should she require punishment, I leave the methods to you. Do try and remember that she is now one of us.”

 

Antonin stood and nodded. “As you wish, my Lord.”

 

“You will obey Antonin as though his words were my own. Do you understand?” he asked the girl.

 

Hermione nodded, eyes cast down and fixed on the green stone set into her wand. Green like Harry’s eyes, and green like the curse that that stolen him from this world. She could feel that green sickness spreading through her soul, the price she would have to pay for the power to protect those she loved. None of them would ever forgive her, she was a traitor and a murderer now, but she could accept it. In time, she would learn to live with it. She raised her eyes to look at her new master.

 

“I understand, my Lord.”

 

~Fin


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular Demand...the continuation.

Seemingly confident that his orders would be taken to heart, Voldemort dismissed them both and turned away to confer with some of the others. Hesitantly, Hermione turned her head to look at the Russian Wizard standing beside her. Every inch of the man was being held tightly, and she suspected that once they were away from here he'd snap like a rubber band held to long after tension. 

 

“Take my arm,” Antonin said coolly and once she had obeyed, he apparated them away from the death and destruction. 

 

Hermione released his arm once they appeared in the middle of a rainy country lane. There were small homes dotted across the countryside, but not a soul seemed to be stirring. “Where are we?” she asked.

 

“Near my home.” The answer was short and the dark wizard started off down the empty lane. It was obvious he expected her to follow, there was, after all, nowhere left for her run.

 

Hermione stumbled a few times, her co-ordination still not entirely right, but she managed to keep up with his long purposeful strides. Together, they passed through a weathered garden gate and Hermione felt an icy tingle from crossing the edge of the wards.  That she could feel them at all, spoke to the Russian’s paranoia and just how much protection he had layered on this simple little house. It was very non-descript, and fit in with every other house she could see. He held the door for her and she walked inside, only to be slammed into the wall with his hand on her throat. Little flashes of light danced in her eyes as she fought for breath. 

 

“Give me your wand mudblood,” He said harshly, squeezing his hand just a little tighter. 

 

She wanted to retort but she remembered that she’d been ordered to obey him. In the end, she relinquished the wand no matter how much it physically hurt to do it. “I have a name,” she hissed when he released her neck, raising a hand to rub it.

 

“Not in this house,” he said. “I’ve been at the wrong end of your wand too often, witch.” Antonin pocketed it, dark eyes glittering with contained malice. “You can have it back when you go outside, but in my own home you will not be armed.”

 

She nodded. “Is there somewhere I can get cleaned up?” she asked after a moment.

 

Antonin's dark eyes watched her for a long moment, before he jerked his head, indicating that she should follow him. He led her upstairs and opened a door, revealing a well-appointed bathroom. There were towels folded in a neat stack on the countertop, and some scattered bottles of personal care products. It made the man seem somewhat human, and not just her own personal boogey man.

 

“I’ll get the guest room made up for you, I imagine you need to rest,” Antonin said quietly, a strange look on his face.

 

“Thank you,” she made herself say, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and felt utterly ill. She’d knelt before that monster and allowed him to brand her like an animal, she’d killed a woman in cold blood, simply to save her own skin. A wave of nausea hit her hard, making her grip the edge of the counter for a moment as the room seemed to swim around her. As it passed, she went to the shower and turned on the water, adjusting it to the tolerable side of scalding. Mechanically, she stripped off her clothes and left her beaded bag sitting on the counter. The water pounded down on her, too hot…but she needed to wash the last weeks off of her body. Vigorous scrubbing left pink and slightly raw patches on her skin, but even that didn't feel like enough. It would never be enough. She had to wash her hair twice to get the oil and grime out of it, and was relieved to see a decent bottle of conditioner there. Reluctantly she left the shower, not wanting to use all the hot water in case Dolohov wanted to clean up as well. A thorough search of her bag produced a fairly clean pair of pajama pants, and a clean t-shirt. She put her wet towels on the rack to dry and gathered up her dirty clothing.

 

She came out of the bathroom, jumping as she saw Dolohov standing there.

 

“Your bedroom is here,” he said simply, going to a door just up the hall and opening it. “Put your dirty things in the hamper and the house elf will clean and mend them. Do you want anything to eat?”

 

Hermione shook her head, hating that she was shaking a bit.

 

“Get some rest then, we can talk in the morning.”

 

Hermione slipped past him, into the bedroom. The guest room was basic, but clean and neat. There was a cream bedspread with little blue flowers on it. A large wardrobe stood against the far wall, and there was even a dressing table near the large window. After months of living out of a tent and worse, it was practically luxurious. Dirty clothes were quickly summoned, and placed in the hamper, before she managed to convince herself to leave the little beaded bag on the nightstand. While she hated the enslavement of House elves, at the moment it suddenly seemed insignificant in the face of Harry's death and her own enslavement to the creature that had killed him. She stumbled over to the bed and fell into it. She was barely able to crawl into the cool sheets before passing out into a dreamless slumber.     

o.o.O.o.o

 

Downstairs Antonin was in his study, sitting in his favourite chair and sipping a tumbler of whiskey. They had won, against the odds…and yet he found himself feeling somewhat apathetic. There were so many were dead, comrades and enemies alike, even children. Their world was lying in ruins, but at least his Lord seemed to understand that. He’d spared many and marking the girl had been an important step to start establishing peace.

 

“But why did it have to be that bloody girl….” He mused aloud and tossed back the last of his drink.

 

Standing and then pouring himself another drink, Antonin gave into the urge to go and check on his 'guest'. He silenced his feet and opened the door to her bedroom slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. She was clearly out cold, having fallen asleep even before pulling the blankets completely over herself. Debating about the sanity of his urges, Antonin reached down and carefully pulled the blanket up around her properly, pausing a moment to stroke her hair back from her cheek. The witch would sleep like the dead for at least the entire night, a common result from being marked and performing her first real taste of dark magic; battle fatigue on top of that would likely keep her out well into the next day. She was such a little thing to have caused so much mayhem. Swallowing thickly, he moved back and made himself leave the bedroom.

 

He went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping out of his bloodied robes. Stepping beneath the spray, Antonin let the hot water beat down on him, the water rolling off him was pink with all the dried blood in his hair. He cleaned himself up efficiently, not the first time he’d returned home coated in the blood of his victims. Having the girl in his home was oddly confusing to him. While many of his brothers had ribbed him about a simple school girl besting him in the Department of Mysteries…the truth was that he had not meant to kill her. He had no interest in murdering children, and had simply not put a great deal of heat behind the curse. He could still feel the touch of his magic in her, and knew that while her curse had been contained and nullified, it had not been broken. She’d wear a piece of him under her skin for the rest of her life. That little piece of knowledge twisted inside his brain, and he wasn't entirely sure what he really felt about it. Her little trick of obliviating him in the café however…that had incensed him, mostly because it had ended with both him and Thorfinn being tortured within an inch of their lives for that failure. He owed her for that, and for the weeks he’d spent in the Malfoy dungeons afterwards.

 

It had been both an honour and a curse for the Dark Lord to entrust the girl to his care. Honoured by the trust he was being shown, and aggravated beyond all reason that he would not have privacy in his own home. He’d anticipated her being surly and disobedient, her strange compliance and almost cowed demeanor left Antonin rather uncertain how to deal with her now. He could only hope it continued so the Dark Lord would see no need for her to remain with him for long. 

 

He stepped out of the shower and dried his body off, motions all by rote as his thoughts were occupied with other matters. He wrapped a towel around his hips, and padded down the hall to his bedroom. Contrary to conventional knowledge, not all of the Dark Lord’s followers had been Slytherins. He’d been a Ravenclaw in his days at Hogwarts, and while he had a nasty temper…he could usually be appealed to with cool logic. The Dark Lord’s base of power was undeniably in Slytherin, but he could boast followers from all of the others as well. It was what made the Dark Lord so successful, he could appeal to the different personality types in a way that made sense to them. At the time, he'd been surprised at the Dark Lord's sparing of the mudblood, and his somewhat generous actions once the Potter boy was dead for good. Looking back on it though, it smacked of a pragmatism that his Lord had been lacking since his resurrection.

 

He laid back on his bed after casting a sealing ward on the house. Even if by some miracle the girl woke before he did, she’d be unable to leave the house. He tugged a blanket over himself and passed out for the night.

 

o.o.O.o.o 

 

By the time Hermione woke, the slant of the sun through her windows hinted that morning had long since come and gone. She sat up slowly, her muscles screaming at her and protesting the abuse they’d been put through over the last months. Across the foot of the bed was a clean set of robes, a pair of black dragonhide pants, and a black shirt. She made a bit of a face at the mono-chromatic look…but decided that she’d be grateful for the new clothes. She dressed slowly, whimpering a bit as the material rubbed against bruised and raw skin. She paused in front of the mirror and had to admit that it suited her. It wasn’t a feminine look by any means, and seemed to emphasize the haunted look on her face. She pushed up the left sleeve and looked at the Dark Mark, feeling bile at the back of her throat. It was rimmed in red, raw and angry still, but she had to admit that it was at least an improvement over Bella’s disgusting disfigurement. She opened the door and headed downstairs.

 

Her stomach clenched with hunger, but it was an ache she was used to and she ignored it for the moment. She found Dolohov sitting in what looked like a small library. “Thank you, for the clothing,” she said quietly as he looked up at her. He was wearing a dark grey shirt, a few buttons undone at the collar.

 

“The Elves said most of your clothing was beyond saving,” he said and stood. “Are you hungry?”

 

She nodded. “I am.”

 

“I wasn’t sure when you’d wake, so I had the Elves keep something warm for you.” He walked past her and down the hall. “You look like it’s been a while since you’ve had a decent meal.” The casual comment hit very close to the mark. 

 

“It’s been a while.” While their short stay at Shell Cottage had helped, it had barely put a dent in the months of rough living in the wilds. The kitchen was bright and airy, and she sat down at the table where the elves had brought over a bowl of meaty stew, fresh bread and a pat of butter.

 

“We’ll keep it simple for the first while then. Your system won’t tolerate anything rich for a while. The Dark Lord sent word this morning that I’m to tend to any injuries you have and oversee your recovery. He’ll expect to see some improvement in your condition when he calls you in two weeks, for now his orders for you are to rest and recouperate. Anything you would like, as far as books, clothing, etc…merely let me know and it will be provided,” Antonin said, watched as she ate. In the light of day, clothed all in black, he was aware of just how unwell she actually looked.

 

“Do you have healer training?” she asked, enjoying the simple but delicious meal.

 

“You’ll find most of the Death Eaters do.” Dolohov didn't expand on the statement, but it was implied that learning to heal your own injuries was likely a good idea. “After recovering from my stint in Azkaban, you’ll find I know something about recuperating after a period of physical and magical depletion. You ran yourself into the ground this last year, unfortunately the repairing the damage will take time. Once you’re done eating, we’ll go upstairs and I’ll tend to anything you need healed. Once I have an idea of your condition, we’ll discuss what needs to be done.”

 

“One thing I do want…is my own wand back. It was taken from me at Malfoy Manor, and I would like it returned.” Hermione said softly, there had to be some advantage to being one of them now. 

 

“I will write to the Dark Lord, and pass along your request.” Dolohov understood the desire to have her own wand returned. While a new wand could function just the same, there was an intimate connection with your own wand that was hard to replace. 

 

Hermione ate until she was full and reluctantly pushed her dish away, regretting that she couldn’t finish it. “It’s really very good, I just can’t…”

 

“Don’t apologize, I understand better than you know,” he said simply. It had taken him months to be able to eat full meal after his escape from Azkaban. “Would you prefer to do this in your bedroom, or the bathroom?”

 

“If you just give me some healing supplies, I can tend to myself.” She protested.

 

“I have orders, you can either do this with some dignity, or I’ll stun you, strip you, and do it anyway.” He gave her a hard look, not willing to tolerate any insolence from the teenaged witch.

 

She flushed in anger but nodded. “The bathroom.”

 

“I’ll meet you up there, strip down to your undergarments and we’ll get you fixed up,” He said and headed off to fetch his healing kit. He’d expected a little bit of reticence at this, she was after all a young woman and quite aware of how vulnerable she was. He would however attempt to be a gentleman about this.

 

Entering the bathroom and seeing the girl standing, there he silently resolved to not just attempt to be a gentleman, but to succeed. She was beyond thin, bruises marching over her too-pale skin. Red wheals from being hit by various spells marked her abdomen and poorly healed slashes on her arms and stomach hinted at a cursed blade having been put to her. The fact that the girl was standing at all was shocking. He set the kit down on the counter.

 

“I’m going to start on your back, I’ll use a bruise paste and healing salve as needed.” He kept his voice low and calm. He gently gathered up her hair and eased it into a loose bun to keep it up off her neck. For the first few touches, she visibly jumped, but soon seemed to settle into stillness. He was as respectful as he could be, while also being thorough. Finally her back was finished, a mural of green bruise paste, and yellow wound salve. The slightly protruding vertebrae were somewhat sobering.

 

Hermione turned around at his prompting, not able to meet his eyes.

 

“What made these, and how long ago?” He asked, pointing to the angry red cuts.

 

“A cursed knife, about a month ago,” she managed to say, but the blood fairly drained from her face. Clearly it had been a memorable experience. 

 

“And these burns?”

 

“Gemino curse, maybe two or three days ago now?” She frowned, trying to think critically.

 

Antonin nodded, face set in serious lines as he once again meticulously covered her wounds in a veritable rainbow of colours, adding burn paste to the mix now. “The knife wounds need to be dealt with, but it won’t be pleasant. I’d rather give you a few days to recover from the other injuries.”

 

“I didn’t know there was anything that could be done for it.” She said.

 

“I need to reopen the wounds and counter the curse, before healing them. It’s painful and they’ll bleed quite freely, but afterwards they should heal without much of a scar,” he told her, then paused a moment as he saw the violet stain under skin. There was no ‘scar’ per se, but it was like someone had frozen purple fire underneath her skin. It started just over her left breast and went straight down to curl over her right hipbone. He couldn’t help but reach out and ghost a fingertip down that mark, his magic calling to him from inside her. It sent an electric charge straight through him.

 

“No!” She pulled back, gasping at the sudden surge of magic against her skin.

 

Antonin blinked and wrestled himself back under control. “Forgive me…I forgot myself,” he said and swallowed thickly. Needing a moment to compose himself, he turned and grabbed her a robe that was hanging behind the door. “That’s everything superficial. Let’s get you tucked into bed and I’ll run a basic diagnostic charm. You’re going to need to spend a fair bit of time in bed just resting.”

 

Hermione belted the robe tightly around herself and then walked past him to her bedroom, needing to get out of the small enclosed space of the bathroom. The feel of the curse mark under her skin reacting to him had been shocking, and unsettling. Heat had flared through her, pooling low in her stomach and it had been a relief when he'd moved back. She got into her bed, feeling ridiculous after only just getting up, but she knew he was right. A few moments later, Dolohov came into the room and silently began to cast a diagnostic charm. She frowned a little, knowing enough to understand that it wasn’t a very good scan.

 

“Not so mild magical exhaustion, malnutrition, and a low grade fever, probably caused by the influenza virus I’m detecting.” Antonin frowned. “I’ll make a trip to pick up some soaking salts for you, but unless you’re having a hot bath or using the bathroom…I think you should stay in bed. The Elves will bring you food and plenty of hot fluids. I’ll also need to get some nutritive potions and fever reducer. It’s unsurprising you’ve gotten ill with how run down you are.”

 

Hermione nodded, accepting the vial of fever reducer and a general pain potion. She drank them back and handed the empty vials back. She felt so utterly wretched; she was safe in a warm bed, being cared for when her friends were Merlin knew where. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and she looked away, not wanting him to see her cry.

 

He didn’t comment, merely handed her a handkerchief and packed his kit up. “I’ll leave you to rest. Would you like some tea?” he asked her.

 

“That would be nice, thank you.” She sniffled. “I-will I be allowed to write to my friends?”

 

“Not right away. The Dark Lord feels it would be best for you to focus on your own recovery for the time being,” he said. “If you continue to behave and do as he tells you, I imagine you will be allowed to write to them soon.”

 

She nodded, understanding even as she hated it. When he was finally gone, she rolled onto her side and cried softly into her pillow, the reality of everything hitting her like a runaway hippogriff. Harry was dead. All they had suffered and fought for had ultimately been for nothing. She cried herself into a fitfull, restless sleep.


End file.
